


The Case of John Watson

by PurellGoddess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confused Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, John watson is fragile, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Porn With Plot, Repressed John, Romance, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Burn, basically a rebound fic, lots of emotions, season 4, undeclared feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9345422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurellGoddess/pseuds/PurellGoddess
Summary: So everything was good again. Besides the psychotic sister, the relentless stalking by John’s dead wife, and the fact that Sherlock Holmes now had a child to raise. A new era is beginning in 221B.A Fix-It Fic in reaction to the series 4 finale. Spoilers for Series 4, obviously.Explicit for later chapters. Will be updated as quickly as possible.





	1. Food for Thought

There was a loud crash when the spoon collided with the mantle, followed by another, softer crash, followed by a cracking noise. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and sighed. It must have hit the skull again. He really needed to get a new skull, this time with a complete set of teeth.

Fearlessly plunging on, Sherlock quickly recovered by grabbing another plastic-gripped spoon from the kitchen drawer. He brandished the spoon at an arm’s length, and facing his opponent, he lunged in—

“Sherlock, what are you doing with that applesauce?” A very confused John Watson stood at the door, holding one of the many discarded spoons that littered the entrance of the flat. From the entry way, he could see the mess that Sherlock had made. Applesauce was splattered across the kitchen tiles, chunky bits running down the length the cupboards and leaving puddles on the floor. Rosie’s baby spoons had been flung every which way. One had managed to lodge itself in the cushions of Sherlock’s chair. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Rosie were frozen in battle, Sherlock spoon in hand and Rosie incredibly clean of applesauce. John deduced that Sherlock was certainly _not_ enjoying his babysitting session. Rosie, surrounded by the sweet-smelling goo, beamed at John. Sherlock had a twisted grimace on his face. He looked at John with pleading eyes. 

“Why, my dear Watson,” Sherlock muttered, “isn’t it obvious that I am trying my best to find a solution to a great problem at hand?” Suddenly he lunged again, spoon bravely surging forward, but Rosie countered just as quickly in her highchair, jerking to the right to avoid Sherlock’s seeking spoon. The applesauce on the spoon soared across the room and landed with a plop on John’s shoe.

John sighed. Life with Sherlock was rarely simple, but life with Sherlock as co-parents was surely detrimental to high long-term health. 

“She has learned,” Sherlock grunted as Rosie leaned to the left, “that she has…the advantage …of the high ground.” 

The applesauce made a dark streak on John’s shoe as it slid onto the floor. Another lunge from Sherlock, and another glob of applesauce went flying across the room.

John tried to look disappointed as Rosie and Sherlock danced around each other, the detective straining in his chair to reach Rosie’s smiling face wildly turning away in the highchair. Sherlock should know better than to pick fights with Rosie by now. While he was clever, she wasn’t expected to be so. Well, he supposed that everyone underestimates babies. Even Sherlock. 

Rosie was an especially devious child. Especially cute, too, but devious nonetheless.

Finally and with great difficulty, Sherlock intercepted Rosie’s mouth. He cried out triumphantly, but as he pressed the spoon to her lips, she took a deep breath, and blew the applesauce all over Sherlock. All three of them stood in silence for a moment. John could hardly contain his laughter. Rosie made him a very proud father.

Brown goo slid into Sherlock’s eye, and he flicked it away with a degree of annoyance one would typically reserve for a small fly, or mosquito. Of all the adversaries he had faced, he had never been bested by a fruit paste before. It was just as degrading as he had imagined it being in his catalogue of Very Unfortunate Things That Could Happen On A Case.

“Well,” he broke the silence, “I do believe Rosie will be quite proficient at swordplay someday.”

John let out a loud bark of laughter, and Rosie broke out into a dazzling grin. Sherlock’s heart swelled. Perhaps being degraded wasn’t so bad. He couldn't help but smile through the lukewarm applesauce that slowly dripped from his curls onto his lap.

John was laughing. This was good.

“Were you teaching my daughter how to fight? With food, of all things!” John chuckled incredulously. He reached for a towel off the oven, and handed it to Sherlock. “Unbelievable, I never thought you would stoop so low.”

Sherlock could undoubtably stoop lower, but he did not think that now was the appropriate time to mention the flame test that he and Rosie had played with a few mornings earlier. After all, the results were inconclusive. Rosie cooed during all of the trials, proving his independent variable invalid. 

The towel wasn't cleaning away the applesauce, but for John’s sake Sherlock continued to tousle his hair. “Children learn with what is in front of them,” he mumbled though the towel. “Just look at me as an example. The only reason I know how to teach Rosie anything is because I live with you.” This was said lightly, but it was not meant so.

John laughed again, sat down next to Rosie, and picked up the forgotten applesauce. Sherlock eyed him from behind the towel. It was always so hard to tell what John was thinking these days. His laughter was seldom genuine. 

Try as he might, the applesauce wouldn't budge from his hair. Served him right for putting product in it that morning. 

“You’re wrong about that, you know,” John said quietly, breaking Sherlock's concentration on violently scrubbing his head.

“About what?” 

“We live with you,” John answered simply. Sherlock just stared at him blankly, towel still at work. “Not the other way around.” John looked down at the remaining applesauce, picked it up, and gently coaxed it into Rosie’s mouth. She swallowed, and opened her mouth for more with a giggle. 

Sherlock let his hands drop from his hair. "Don't be ridiculous, 221B is as much my home as it is yours."

John made his Exasperated face, which wasn't a face, really, he just lowered his shoulders slightly. The Exasperated face as well as the Pained and Confused faces were the most popular of the regalia worn around Sherlock nowadays. Sometimes Sherlock would see a bit of the Tired and Emotional faces peeking through. Rarely the Joyous Watson anymore. Then again, try as he might to catalogue every expression John had ever made, the doctor never ceased to surprise him. 

Sherlock decided that was the reason he loved him so much.

”Regardless, you're letting me live here with an infant, while you pay the rent with consulting. I'm a glorified stay-at-home single father without prospects and pay, and keeping us here is a kindness." John took a deep breath. "I won’t forget your charity, Sherlock. Just as soon as I won’t forget the circumstances that led to this situation.” He then made a face at Rosie, who giggled, juice running down her plump chin. A Silly face. 

Thumbing the towel, which he had now thoroughly given up on, Sherlock turned away. “Nor will I,” Sherlock replied. “I can assure you that, John”

John watched as his friend walked out of the room. Rosie impatiently gurgled, and John obliged her with some more applesauce.

“Yes, Rosie darling, I know you're hungry,” he teased. “Maybe if you had eaten your food instead of projecting it across the flat, you wouldn't be so irritable.” He looked to the back of the flat. “Sounds just like someone else I know,” he said loudly. 

In the bathroom, picking out more pieces of apple from his hair, Sherlock smiled. 

~*~

No, he would never forget the circumstances that had landed them in the situation they were presently in. Even if he tried to move on from the trauma they had experienced in the past year, his life still revolved around old wounds, and old faces. 

To name a few: the weekly meetings with his murderous sister with whom he could only communicate with via violin. The occasional bits of charred wood and paper and plaid upholstered fabric. The unannounced visits his brother made to sit and be “comforted,” for some absurd reason. The look Mrs. Hudson would give them whenever John would bring Rosie to bed upstairs. The scar precisely 6.3 cm to the left of and 2.7 cm above his navel, an oval had centimeter indent into his stomach. The deep green eyes and broad smile that Rosie flashed whenever she saw him. He only saw Mary.

Ghosts of his past, remembered and not, followed Sherlock Holmes. And John Watson, the most persistent ghost of all, was his flatmate once again. Destitute, depressed, and a dad. Oh joy. 

Of all the unresolved cases, the Case of John Watson was the most pressing. How long had he been following it? By now it must have been 8 years. Granted, he was absent for a quarter of that time, but it was for John’s own good. 

The Case of John Watson. It did need a better name. John was always so good at picking out the name. 

The Case of the Loveless Doctor. The Irksome Heart. The Mammoth Misunderstanding.

The final problem was his first and prevailing problem. How to get John to love him back.

Third chances are so hard to come by. Something about how three is a magic number popped into Sherlock’s head. He ignored it. Science was the closest thing to magic, and even logic failed sometimes. 

Feelings. Not so boring after all. 


	2. The Dancing Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warrior uses a sword, while a clever warrior uses tea.

In Sherlock’s humble opinion, there was nothing quite as settling as a cup of tea. Preferably, a cuppa he did not have to make himself, but he did make sacrifices once in a while. 

He understood the chemistry behind the soothing qualities of tea—the bitterness of the black tea in combination with milk created an emotional response when the palate was greeted by the mixture of sweet and bitter, the jolt of caffeine provided a chemical jumping-off point for what one could consider happiness—but he preferred not to think while drinking his morning tea. Well, not to think about the tea. He could be thinking about thousands of things, and tea would not be one of them.

Today, Sherlock was thinking about dancing. Specifically, dancing men. More specifically, a cipher of caricatures of little dancing men. 

They had received a call from a disturbed young man who thought his wife was being threatened, or even worse wooed, by a shady figure who only communicated through these stick figures. The various positions of the drawings clearly indicated that they were a sort of alphabet. Sherlock was now trying to decide if they were directly translated from Latin letters, or of they were characters similar to Hiragana symbols in the Japanese alphabet. 

He sipped his tea, and mused some more. 

By the sound of the door slamming downstairs, he could tell John was in a good mood. Rosie wasn’t with him, so he was likely expecting for Sherlock to be on a case today. Sherlock listened attentively to John’s footsteps as he climbed the stairs. A hesitation to step on his left leg. His limp. 

It had been half a year, and still John hadn’t moved on. 

“Sherlock,” John called out from the hall, “I just dropped Rosie off at Molly’s. Any clients come round?”

Sherlock was also aware of the chemistry behind the way he felt when John said his name, but understanding the science of it rarely stopped the chill that ran down his spine.

“….No,” Sherlock drawled, taking a sip from the teacup. “At least, I haven't heard the doorbell ring. Actually, it might’ve a few hours ago. Persistently, too.” He took another sip and hummed.

John sighed loudly. Sherlock had drawn scores of little dancing men on his paperwork. 

“Sherlock, did you do this?” John asked, Exasperated face making another welcome appearance. Sherlock ignored him. “Is this a new case?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock retorted, absentmindedly swishing the cooling tea around. “I did answer the doorbell.” Sip. “Client.” Sip. “Boring.” He tried to take another sip, but his tea was all gone. He looked into the cup with great disappointment. 

John sighed. “Obviously the case wasn’t that boring, or else you wouldn't use my paperwork as a drawing board.” 

“Tea.” Sherlock mumbled.

“What?” Exasperated was bordering on Frustrated. “No, Sherlock, don’t change the subject. What is the case?”

“Tea!” Sherlock dramatically uncrossed his legs, and fled to the kitchen. He emphatically started the kettle with a dramatic _click._ “Did you know that all types of tea comes from the same plant, but green tea is made from whole leaves, whereas black tea is made from crushed leaves, allowing certain enzymes to —“

“Sherlock—“

“Tea, John, that’s the answer. The symbols are letters, and the first words it spells is tea, as I have proved with my analysis on that scrap paper.”

“Scrap? Sherlock, this is a prescription!” 

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth in quick succession. He looked John up and down. Healthy, he concluded. No indication of external trauma. 

“Yes, well, it helped me solve the case,” he said under his breath.

“That still is no excuse for using this as scrap,” John said, fully Exasperated again. Sherlock ignored him. John pursed his lips, turned, stumbled on his left leg, and knocked over Sherlock’s abandoned teacup. 

“Damn,” he muttered, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed. This was not good. 

John displaying symptoms of a psychosomatic trauma was nothing new. He had been to war, for god’s sake, he was going to have some sort of trauma one way or another. But relapsing into his post-traumatic stress symptoms was something new. 

Not to mention the not-so-subtle visits from Mary’s ghost. That was really not good. 

Ultimately, John needed to get his shit together/ That much was obvious to even a casual observer. How was Sherlock supposed to seduce the man if he was plagued by visions of his dead wife?

Not that he had any experience in the art of seduction. Was it an _art_ or a science? War could be described as an art or a science. If war was a science, then it would just take a very clever strategist to plan the best warpath, the plan of most destruction and least causality. The only reason war is described as an art is because people do not understand it. 

It is so easy for other people to underestimate things that they do not understand. 

Sherlock decided that war was a science, and in the same vein, so was seduction. It was so easy to tell what other people were thinking, and so predict what they were going to do. Sherlock supposed that he would make a good war general. He _had_ wanted to be a pirate, after all. He was destined for some gory life. 

He hadn't predicted that John would change his destiny quite profoundly. 

Science. A plan could theoretically be concocted for any scenario that would ever occur—in general terms there are only so many ways a man can die in war—and by using a sort of scientific method, a solution could be divined that would answer any situation. 

Seduction would be the same. Sherlock needed a plan. All he needed to do was decipher John, just as he needed to decipher these dancing men. 

John, dancing with Mary on his wedding day. 

The water came to a boil. Sherlock poured out the steaming water onto the leaves.

A plan. With clues. And mystery. John would like that very much. A great distraction, and the reveal. The Set Up, and the Prestige. 

John, weighed down by explosives, a red dot on his forehead right in the crease of his worry lines. 

John, always. 

Sherlock had to get this right. They had been dealt a clean slate, a new beginning with the “Baker Street Boys” back at it again, solving crimes and sharing triumphant smiles. The realization of the sister, the death of Mary, the addition of Rosie, and Sherlock’s complete mental breakdown did not affect the way things were, and always had been.

Sherlock was in love with John. And now, finally, John had another chance to love him back.

The boiling water spilled onto Sherlock’s hand and he gasped, emerging from his train of thought. John looked up from his own spill, alarmed.

“Sherlock, are you alright? What happened?” John rushed into the kitchen where Sherlock was inspecting his pink hand.

“Oh, it’s nothing, I just wasn’t paying attention.” He turned away, but John grabbed his shoulder and leaned over his swelling hand. 

John tsked, and cradled Sherlock’s hand in his own. “It’s just a small burn, but it’ll smart.” Sherlock focused all his attention on observing the calluses on John’s palm, and not the pool of warmth settling in his stomach. 

John reached over and turned on the faucet, sticking Sherlock’s hand under the cool running water. Sherlock inhaled sharply…and then more deeply. 

John looked over his shoulder at the detective. “Are you smelling me?” he asked. 

“No,” Sherlock retorted to the wall, avoiding John’s eyes. 

John inspected Sherlock’s hand with more attention than it really needed. “Yes you are.”

“Molly was cooking Chicken Francese, that’s all.” Sherlock bit the inside of his mouth as John gently dabbed at the burn with a towel. 

John smiled, and reached for the antibiotic cream in one of the drawers. They stood in comfortable silence as John rubbed in the cream on the burn area. John’s practiced fingers circled the pink flesh, spiraling into the middle to smooth out the cream. Sherlock could feel each of John’s breaths, warm on his drying hand.

Sherlock did not think he had been more aroused in his entire life. 

“There,” John patted Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock was about to drop it away when John—Sherlock held his breath, his heart pounding—brought it up to his lips for a light kiss. 

It had happened so fast, the brush of lips and then their absence, Sherlock’s hand still outstretched as John turned away. They both froze, realizing what just happened. Sherlock was blushing profusely, more shocked than anything. 

Sherlock’s eyes bored into the back of John’s head. The doctor eventually turned around with new expression on his face. “Er, sorry, Sherlock. That’s something I do with Rosie.” It wasn't Pained, or Frustrated. Or Embarrassed. 

He was clenching his fist. His right fist. 

John shifted his balance off his left leg. “I wasn’t thinking, I’ve been away from practice for so long—“

“You can’t escape father mode, can you?” Sherlock interrupted, trying to diffuse the awkwardness. 

Good. A platonic explanation for his actions.

John searched Sherlock’s face, and deflated. “Yes, damn it.” He wearily turned and not so much sat in his armchair as fell into it. Sherlock grabbed the cups, still steaming, and brought them over to John.

Seduction was a science, but John was a piece of work.

Sherlock waited for John to speak, sipping on his own tea. It really was settling, but he had things of more importance than tea to focus on at the moment. Like the fact that he had just gotten an erection from holding John’s hand.

Really not good.

John took a sip from his tea. “I feel pent up. I haven't worked in weeks and I’m aching for something to do. And yet I’m exhausted. Rosie hasn't been sleeping well, and you probably could figure out from her constant crying at 3 in the morning. And still I feel guilty for feeling like I can’t do it alone.”

“But you're not alone—“

John huffed. “Yes, I know, and that’s half the problem. I don’t know how to share the responsibility of Rosie with four people.” He was gulping his tea now. “I have a tremendous amount of help, and still I’m not doing enough. If Rosie cannot rely on me to drop everything for her, then I’m a shit dad.”

Sherlock set down his tea and crossed his legs. “You know you’re not.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because I say so.”

John exhaled shortly and pursued his lips. Not Exasperated. He thumbed the arm of his chair, worrying on the lose stands. The new furniture was not as nice as the old armchairs, sagging with age and the antics that 221B had seen. Everything in the flat was new and sterile. 

That’s why Sherlock had taken to throwing the furniture around the flat whenever John was out. Just to freshen things up.

Sherlock followed the circle John’s hand made around one of the strands on the arm. His blunt fingernails stretched the fabric, slowly elongating the string until he pulled it out entirely. Then he moved onto another strand. Slowly pulling the chair apart. 

Sherlock had never empathized with a chair before. It was an odd experience. 

“I wish I can ignore the circumstances. I really wish I could, Sherlock.” There was a pleading note in his tone that grated on Sherlock’s heart. 

John was lying. He didn’t want to move on. Why?

 “We can’t go back to before.” John flicked another string away. What life they had built together, so easily blown away and restarted in a moment. 

“I know,” Sherlock said, “but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“I know,” John sighed.

They lapsed into silence again. Out of the corner of Sherlock’s eye, he could see something on the mantle that was out of place.

“You know, it _would_ be easier to move on if Mary would stop harassing us from the dead,” Sherlock muttered.

John gave him a withering look. “She’s doing her best.” 

A letter was pinned under the penknife that stuck out of the mantle. It had not been there earlier that day. 

John sighed again. He did that often. Probably concealed a yawn. “Would you like another cuppa?” he asked, getting up to put away his teacup in the sink. “And would you like to please explain what exactly this case is?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, would be an honor,” Sherlock said, clearly not paying attention to what John was saying. Once John was out of the room, Sherlock cautiously strode over the mantle, and ripped open the letter. 

Plain stock paper. Adequate flexibility. Probably some mass produced office supply brand. He smelled it. Nothing discernible. He read it. 

_Dear Honorable Sirs Sherlock Holmes and John Watson._

_Who loves a game? You do! So get cluing around. Off the street your network of bums live on, take a left. Care about the hymn that’s playing now; listen, it marches towards heaven. 22._

_Good luck,_

_An Old Friend_

_PS Miss Hooper recommended me. I have no friend I more dear._

He read over it once, twice, turned it upside down, read it three more times, then crumpled it up and threw it into the fire. 

“What’s that?” John inquired, returning from the kitchen. 

Sherlock turned briskly and collapsed into his chair. “Oh, nothing,” he said offhandedly. “Just an answer to some correspondence with an old friend.” He sipped his tea with a smile. 

~*~

_Dear Sherlock. John loves you. Get off your bums, and take care of [him]. March 31. Miss me no more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a fuckin sip, babes ;) And let me know what you think in the comments.


	3. It Is What It Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people have demons. John has Mary. And Sherlock. Not that it's weird or anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: descriptions of a panic/anxiety attack, Repressed Feelings, and VERY VERY SMALL mention of abuse.

John was out shopping with Rosie when he had another panic attack. 

The grocery aisles were long and abandoned. No one but little old ladies with canes and downy hair were doing their shopping at this time of day. The cash registers sat empty, except for No. 4 which was occupied by a very unhappy-looking teenager. 

John dropped the tin of sweet peas, and stumbled. All he had been doing was looking for a tin of sweet peas. And he started thinking about how Mary always hated cooking peas, and how Sherlock never ate peas, and he very much liked peas, but he never got to eat them, and this was his chance to because— 

It started as always with the feeling that someone had taken a razor to the back of his neck, scraping its way up his scalp, his hair falling all over the floor of the canned goods aisle. Then came the shakes, the tremor in his hand becoming a violent shudder. And then the bullet that had lodged in his shoulder came whistling into him again and again and again. 

He saw black and green spots. His lungs pushed up into his throat. 

He set down his basket, and fought for his breath as he rushed out of the store, Rosie’s pram rolling unevenly in front of him. Having been woken from her nap by this sudden change of pace, Rosie began to cry.

Step. Step. Stepstepstepstepstep.

Reaching the car in record time, he hushed and managed to pick her up without shaking her too much. “Rosie darling it’s alright. It’s alright, we’re just going home.” He could hear the hysterical note in his voice. “Daddy’s sorry for scaring you, darling.” She was still crying when he buckled her in, his hands accidentally catching and pulling on her shirt. The old ladies with downy hair were starting to stare.

He could feel the chain pulling him down by his ankle, the water seeping into his skin and puddling in his shoes. He could taste the ash and smoke and feel the flames lick at his sides. He opened his mouth but nothing came out, nothing went in. The water rose but still the fire burned hotter and closer. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. 

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock save me.

He swore at the pram, which wasn’t collapsing like it was advertised as doing so well. The old ladies were definitely staring now. Rosie was screaming, and his hands were shaking, and his pulse was beating in his ears louder every moment. 

John gave up and shoved the whole pram into the boot. It closed with a snap. Rosie wailed. 

He slammed his door with conviction, turned on the radio to drown out Rosie’s cries, and pressed his head firmly against the driving wheel. 

Phalanges. Metacarpal I, metacarpal II, metacarpal III, metacarpal IV, metacarpal V. Proximal carpal bones: scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform. Distal: trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate.

He traced the bones under his skin with his index finger, breathing in on every other identification. 

Lestrade was on the radio.

Wrist joint: scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum carpal bones, radius, articular disc. Ulna.

Sherlock’s hand reached for his, pulled him out of the fire, out of the well, out of the grocery aisle with the spilled peas.

Rosie had stopped crying. John’s breathing was evening out, and the roar of his pulse had quieted to a drumbeat. He turned down the music. It was raining. 

 _Que sera, sera. C’est la vie._ It is what it is.

John started the car, and reversed.

The voice of Sherlock crawled into John’s head, “In a stunning turn of events, _Doctor_ John Hamish Watson, hypocrite of the century, overlooks his psychological trauma, again.”

“You don’t have to be smug about my mental health,” John muttered at the Sherlock in his head. Rosie let out a warning squeal. “If you really cared, you would do something to help.”

“I’m trying,” Sherlock whined, “but you’re being so difficult about it.”

Curly headed git. John was speeding on the motorway. “Well, do enlighten me on how you've attempted to ease my ‘psychological trauma,’” John retorted.

In John’s mind’s eye, Sherlock was sitting in his usual chair, wearing nothing but a dressing gown, pajamas, and slippers. It was a Sunday morning, John could tell by the paper that lay near Sherlock’s feet. He had already done the crossword.

“I have offered you a comfortable living environment. I provide company, and a cure for boredom. I give you the thrill of the chase and the opportunity to be a hero.” So perhaps the Sherlock of John’s imagination was a caricature of the real Sherlock, but it was a caricature based on reality.

The Exasperated Face made an appearance, even though John was only having a conversation with himself. “For a genius, you can be so thick-headed sometimes,” he muttered. “You can’t invite me to move in and then expect the mere presence of Sherlock Holmes will make me forget everything else.”

“But it usually works, John, and you know it.”

Damn.

“You do know it, John,” Mary said from the passenger seat.

“Jesus, what is it, National Torture John Watson Day?” John cried out, almost swerving into a lorry. It honked, and he returned the favour with a rude gesture. 

“If I didn't know better,” Sherlock said, “I would say this is an intervention. But I’ve had a few of those, and this is much less…emotional.” He picked absentmindedly at the hem of his dressing gown, which slid precariously up his thigh. 

Curly haired git and all, he could be…distracting at times.

“Get out of my head, Sherlock.”

“You put me here. If you wanted me gone, I would be gone.”

“And you call Sherlock thick-headed,” Mary said incredulously. This got an Exasperated Face. For a dead woman, she was quite disrespectful. “We _are_ trying to help, my darling, you just refuse to accept it.”

John changed lanes with emphasis. “Help is a funny way to define this haunting scheme. Why don’t you help me by leaving me to my own business.”

“Stop being obtuse,” Sherlock quipped. “You know that Mary can’t leave until you actually want her to.”

“And we all know you don’t really want me to leave yet,” Mary said, a scolding tone in her voice. 

John swore under his breath, and turned off the motorway. “I just can’t see the point of my subconscious manifesting in the images of my two closest…friends.”

“‘The two people that love you most’ is how I believe I described it,” Mary smiled.

“Yes, that,” John shifted in his seat. The red taillights of the cars in front of him were giving him a headache. 

Sherlock sighed with impatience, uncrossed his legs and slumped back in the chair. His neck bared to the air was eerily pale in the lighting of John’s imagination. “The purpose of a subconscious is to influence your actions and feelings, not to actively solve your inner turmoils. We are only here to give incentive for you to do that. Ergo, John, this is up to _you._ ”

“We’re actually overstepping our boundaries by talking to you this plainly,” Mary nodded. 

“An example of the proper use of the subconscious,” Sherlock explained. “would be some sort of trauma undergone in adolescence, such as but not limited to abusive parents, unsupportive childhood friends, rigid army protocol, influencing adult behavior, such as but not limited to reluctance towards emotional intimacy and an unyielding self-determination bordering on stubbornness.”

“Sherlock,” John said with warning. He honked. Traffic in central London. Who would have guessed. “Overstep your boundaries in the opposite direction.”

“Mm, yes, I’m sure you’d love to have the real Sherlock do that,” Mary remarked. John glared at the passenger seat, but Mary was now in the backseat playing with Rosie. 

“I don’t even know what _that’s_ supposed to mean,” John said, the note of hysteria creeping back into his register.

“Yes you do,” was all the response the two gave.

“Stop picking on me, and give me some damn influence.”

Sherlock and Mary sighed. “Fine,” Sherlock allowed, standing up in a smooth motion, ethereal. “Just know that my high opinion of your intellect is lowering every moment I have to explain this further.” John pursed his lips.  “Can you answer this question: what are you doing right now?”

“…which question do you want me to answer?”

“John, stop pretending to be me, a smart arse!”

“Alright, I’m acting like a lunatic.” John could feel the Sherlock in his head glare at him. “I’m talking to the voices in my head.”

“Yes, and what can you do in reality that mimics what you are doing at this very moment?”

It was very confusing to be talked around by his own mind. “I dunno, could I…talk to you?”

Cheers erupted in the car. Mary gave him a kiss on the cheek from the passenger seat. Sherlock fell into his chair in relief. Even Rosie was laughing. 

Sherlock held the bridge of his nose tightly, but only for dramatic effect. He rarely got headaches because his brain worked too fast to register most pain. “Yes John! Congratulations, you just solved the Case of John Watson with the simple but ingenious tool of communication!”

John worried at his lower lip. This traffic was horrendous. The road in front of him seemed to stretch out, forever cluttered with cars and exhaust.

Mary smiled, and took one of John’s hands in hers. “Darling, if you weren't so stubborn about things and talked with Sherlock, the person who _loves you the most_ , about what is plaguing you, you could get a load off your chest.”

“I can’t.”

“And why not?”

“You bloody well know why not, Mary!”

 “I think you’re being a bit of a drama queen, John,” Sherlock stated with an air of disgust. 

John punched the driving wheel. They were turning onto Baker Street now. “Don’t you dare, Sherlock. I went to war, damn it, I was a soldier, I was strong and I proved myself as a man long ago.”

“Oh, John,” Mary started, but Sherlock talked over her.

“John, _I’m_ the unfeeling one. _I’m_ the dubiously ethical one. _I’m_ the one who would rather pretend to be dead for two years than face you, because _I’m_ the scared one. You’re not supposed to be the one who, of all things, backs away from your own feelings because you’re scared.“

“Enough!” John cried out. From the back, the forgotten Rosie whimpered. 

The real Sherlock Holmes would never be saying these things. He was too deep inside his own incredible mind to think for a second that John could be weak, and John could be scared, and John could be fighting himself every day of his life. 

From one war to another, John had never left the battlefield. But no, Sherlock would never realize. If only he would get off his high deer-stalker-wearing horse and look, really look at John for once. He’d see. 

“But you don’t want me to see,” Sherlock’s voice rang out inside John’s head, and then was silent. Mary was gone, too.

John sat in the parked car until the minute on the digital clock changed. Then he turned off the engine, unpacked the somehow intact pram out of the boot, placed Rosie inside, and entered 221B.

Rosie fell asleep quickly once in her cot. She slept with a pink blanket his mum had knitted, a stuffed elephant from Sherlock’s parents, and a toy representation of the hydrogen atom, a gift from Sherlock himself. Rosie liked the atom the best. 

John returned to the living room, and sat in his chair across from Sherlock’s. The detective must be sleeping. At this time of day, it was entirely possible that he hadn’t woken yet. John leaned his head against the tall back of the armchair.

Mary. Sherlock. Talking. Crying. Touching. His hands…

Drowning. Burning. Dying. Falling falling falling—

Phalanges. Metacarpal I, metacarpal II, metacarpal III, metacarpal IV….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk about y'all, but I'm dying right now because of this show. Let me know what what you think in the comments so I don't have to suffer alone.
> 
> Translation: Latin: What will be, will be. French: That's life.  
> Indirect translation: It is what it is.


End file.
